


I Could Be An Accident (But I'm Still Trying)

by alexabarton



Series: Deduce My Ruined Heart [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Anal Sex, BAMF John, Blood Kink, Bottom John, Come Sharing, First Time Bottoming, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Nipple Play, Non-Graphic Violence, Pain Kink, Possessive John, Rimming, Shower Sex, Slut Sherlock, Teenlock, Top Sherlock, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 17:43:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2516321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexabarton/pseuds/alexabarton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes is a man on a mission - to put John Watson to the test.<br/>The plan? - Exposing a few of Sherlock's most dirty little secrets should do the trick....in the middle of a family dinner party!<br/>What could possibly go wrong?</p>
<p> In which Mycroft wants to break John...<br/>John just wants to break Sebastian's face...<br/>And Sherlock just wants to fuck John Watson senseless...</p>
<p>It's a bloodbath!</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Could Be An Accident (But I'm Still Trying)

Sherlock Holmes drifted slowly into consciousness, yawned widely and rubbed at his sleep-closed eyes. Orange light danced behind hid lids, fused with black spots as he squinted and blinked. He was currently lying on an old olive green leather sofa, night-damp skin adhering slightly to the surface. He wiggled slightly and his back came unstuck with a clammy pop. His right leg was currently resting between two strong muscular thighs, fuzzy with dark blond hair, his right arm draped around a slim, firm waist, fingers entwined in a vice-grip with another smaller hand. He was naked, very naked, they both were, this revelation entering his frontal lobe and sparking the necessary synapses to elicit a very particular response.

John groaned as Sherlock’s very erect penis prodded insistently at the base of his spine, refusing to be ignored.

“Are you awake?” Sherlock whispered hoarsely, and received only a muffled “Mmm” by way of a reply.

Now that sleep had evaporated he was bored, bored and twitchy, he wanted to move, but he was sandwiched neatly between the back of the sofa and John’s body. He tried an experimental wriggle and his trapped cock rubbed against John’s smooth warm skin, and he shivered from the delicious friction. Hmm, that was nice. He tried again, more of a definite thrust of the hips this time, sending shockwaves of pleasure through his body.

“Are you seriously humping my back with your morning wood?”

He froze mid rub like a child caught stealing sweeties, coughed and cleared his throat.

“Might have been……sorry, you were just _there_ , with _no clothes on_ , and how could I not?” he spluttered, embarrassed.

John laughed. “Well it might have been polite to ask first, you know, before you come all over my arse”

John wiggled around then, turned onto his back and gazed up at Sherlock with mischievous blue eyes.

“I think I can do a bit better than a sneaky rub-off”

A warm palm closed around the hot velvet skin and Sherlock sucked in a breath, holding it there…

_**TAPTAPTAP** _

“Woo hoo! Are you decent boys!”

John snatched his hand away as if he’d been burnt and Sherlock hissed as he felt the scratch of a fingernail on sensitive flesh. He still had the presence of mind to grab the quilted throw from where it had pooled around mid-thigh and pulled it quickly over their exposed bodies. A head of wispy brown hair peeped cautiously around the door frame.

“Ah good, you’re awake now, I thought I heard movement”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked down to John’s face. It was pleasingly flushed, the way it looked when Sherlock nibbled at his neck and thumbed his nipples through his clothes. He was thankful Mrs Hudson couldn’t see his cock twitch.

She stepped fully into the room this time, a pile of folded clothes and two fluffy white towels balanced on one arm. It was then that Sherlock noticed the lack of scattered garments on the bare floorboards and registered the clothes she carried as his and John’s. Oh god, she had washed their dirty pants and one very come-stained t-shirt! He cast his eyes wildly around the room.

“Over there dear” Mrs Hudson indicated with her head in the direction of the kitchen as she caught Sherlock’s eye.

“I decided those would do, they take so long to dry don’t they? Besides, I didn’t want to go rummaging around in those pockets, never know what you might find” she said, shooting Sherlock a meaningful look.

“Mrs Hudson, we….” He started, and she cut him off abruptly.

“You can save your explanations for now young man, let’s just get you two sorted out first shall we? I’ve had the night storage on so there should be plenty of hot water for showers if you don’t dilly dally and I popped some shampoo and whatnot on the side of the bathtub if you need it. Sorry I can’t stretch to toothbrushes, but there’s toothpaste and you can use your finger – I hadn’t expected company, you see”.

She softened slightly, sighed heavily, and walked over to the table, placing her bundle next to their folded jeans, belts coiled in a neat loop beside them.

“I looked in earlier you see, and you were both fast asleep, so peaceful, I didn’t have the heart to wake you, but you’re up now so chop-chop, you have half an hour before breakfast”.

She clapped her hands at them briskly and left the room. The door shut with a definite ‘plunk’ and her footsteps echoed down the stairs.

“Well that was….interesting” Sherlock smirked.

“It could have been a lot fucking worse” said John, “we could’ve been dragged out of here in handcuffs”

“Mmm handcuffs…” Sherlock buried his face in the back of John’s neck and inhaled deeply, “I think I would like to see you in some of those…on your knees maybe…”

“Fucking pervert!” John pushed him away playfully.

“I take it that’s a no?” Sherlock pouted.

“I didn’t say that, I just said you’re a fucking pervert. Didn’t say I wouldn’t be up for it some time, you know…”

“Oh god John Watson you drive me insane! Shower. Now!”

Sherlock bounded up from the sofa, legs in a tangle of quilt and John, and shoved him along insistently towards the bathroom, he grabbed the towels from the table on the way.

“Hey, you can have first turn if you like” John protested.

Sherlock glared at him, incredulous, “You are fucking joking aren’t you?”

“OH”

~*~

 

Sherlock stepped under the warm spray and adjusted to the stinging sensation, like a million tiny elastic bands flicking on his exposed skin. He turned down the pressure in the showerhead until it felt more akin to heavy rain as John climbed clumsily over the side of the bath to join him. He slipped on the glassy ceramic surface and Sherlock shot out an arm to his waist to steady him. They stood for a minute, breathing, watching each other, palm in contact with warm flesh.

Sherlock liked the way the condensation caught in John’s eyelashes, and the mottled flush on his skin from the humid air. A sex- flush. His wilting erection filled out again. John withdrew and turned around carefully to retrieve shampoo and shower gel from where they were balanced on the end of the tub, bending over slightly. Sherlock stared at the nodules of his spine and followed the curve of his arse to where it joined the upper thigh. He wanted to reach out and squeeze, run a hand down each cheek and gently prise them apart to reveal the secret dusky pucker. Sherlock salivated, gripped with a bone-deep want. He wanted to take John’s virgin arse and penetrate him, slip inside him where no-one had been before.

His pulse rate rocketed and he felt light-headed from the heat. The thought of being buried, balls deep in John’s arsehole made his heart pound painfully behind his ribcage, especially, he thought, if those wrists were encased in a pair of police issue handcuffs, attatched to something solid like a bed…or a table leg…(he was sure he could filch some off Greg).

Oh fuck! Sherlock was so going to hell!

“You’re checking my arse out now Sherlock, aren’t you?”, John turned back to face him, grinning, bottle in hand.

“I was thinking about how I want to fuck it actually…should I bend you over something or have you on your back”.

Shit. Did he really just say that out loud?

“Jesus Christ Sherlock, now?”

Apparently it was out loud.

Ah well, best lay your cards on the table (or lay John on the table)

“What?”(Re-engage brain with mouth) “No, not now obviously….logistics..” he gestured vaguely around the steamy bathroom.

“Maybe later…we could try that, if you still wanted too?”

John peered up at him through thick dark blond lashes and Sherlock’s heart began to pound again. Really, he should be able to control himself a bit better than this.

John inched forward, crowding him against the cold slippery tiles. His eyes raked over Sherlock’s body and he stood frozen, pinned by the intensity of his gaze as it flicked from his face, to eyes, to mouth, to jaw, to neck. He paused and ran wet fingertip over the jugular vein and Sherlock felt a tingle of hypersensitivity. A bruise then, he thought, shaped like John’s mouth. John’s eyes ran down his body and he felt exposed in the way that he usually made others feel, when he stripped them bare with his cut-downs and barbs.

John gasped and reached out a trembling hand, running it gently over the dip of his waist and pelvic bone, drawing circles around his hip.

He looked horrified.

“Fuck, Sherlock, I’m sorry…I didn’t realise”

Sherlock looked down at the flesh beneath John’s hovering palm. Five livid purple finger-shaped bruises decorated his ghost-pale skin. He thought they were the most beautiful things he had ever seen.

The other hip told the same story, the story of John holding his body so tight as he fucked him into the back of the sofa last night and of Sherlock coming with barely a touch.

“Don’t be sorry, I like them, because you put them there. I wanted you to”

He tipped John’s chin up towards his face and pressed their foreheads together, willing the stricken look to leave his face. Water cascaded down the back of his head, splashing in twin streams over his shoulders as their lips hovered close in a nearly kiss, just panting lightly at each other.

John caved in first, biting Sherlock’s lower lip and sucking hard on his tongue. Sherlock grabbed two glorious fistfuls of arse and slammed John’s pelvis into his own, his cock sliding up and down John’s lower abdomen as they rutted frantically. It was fast and hot and downright fucking dangerous as their feet slipped and slid, and elbows banged on ceramic tiles and rattled the glass shower screen.

They really shouldn’t want each other this much so soon, but they did, so Sherlock braced his left arm against the tiled wall and wrapped his long fingers round both their cocks, jerking them erratically, their open mouths still pressed together, lips not even moving now. Soft ha…ha…ha…ha’s as Sherlock’s fist pumped, the only sound other than the gentle patter of water on skin and ceramic.

John came first, warm and sticky over Sherlock’s fist, Sherlock only a thrust or two after, on John’s hip and thigh. He ran his fingers through his own come and watched it slowly melt away as the steady stream of water washed it down the drain.

They kissed again, long and slow and deep, exploring and tasting. Sherlock wished he could stand there all day, kissing John and touching his wet slippery skin, but the water had started to run colder and they needed to wash (as if that was the point of sharing a shower).

“Here, let me”

John picked the bottle of shampoo up from the bottom of the bathtub where he had dropped it earlier. The lid had cracked and a viscous yellow substance which smelled strongly of lemons was leaking copiously.

“Bend over a little for me”

He ducked his head forward and John began to slowly massage the soapy suds into his scalp, kneading firmly and confidently. It felt incredibly intimate, to let someone else wash you this way, thought Sherlock, and also very, very erotic, as John’s fingertips caught around his earlobes and rubbed at his sensitive nape, he shivered and sucked in a shaky breath.

“God, yeah, this water is fucking cold now isn’t it?” said John, misinterpreting, as he scrubbed his own hair vigorously gave a cursory once over to the important bits and reached over to turn off the spray.

They stepped out onto the cool tiled floor and patted themselves dry with Mrs Hudson’s soft fluffy towels as if they did this every day, like their normal routine and it all seemed just too perfect and right. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to take John back to the living room then, to pull him back into their quilted cocoon, all day just the two of them, naked, before the rest of the world could interfere again.

They dressed quickly in the clean laundered clothes and stood feeling slightly awkward by the kitchen table, in a flat they had no right to be in. The sound of Mrs Hudson’s footsteps clattered up the stairs.

“Just pop downstairs now boys, if you would”, she said, as she poked her head around the kitchen door “No sense in carrying all that stuff up here and making a mess, when I would only have to cart it all back down again.”

They shuffled nervously towards the door. Mrs Hudson placed a gentle hand on Sherlock’s arm to hold him back and John glanced at them both questioningly.

“Just go ahead dear, it’s all on the kitchen table, you know the way” they both flushed guiltily, and John continued down alone.

Sherlock picked compulsively at a loose piece of thread on the outer seam of his jeans as they waited for John to make it downstairs. The door to 221A opened and closed.

“You’re playing with fire dear, you do realise that don’t you?” Mrs Hudson began.

Sherlock forced himself to meet her eyes and found it hurt to see the disapproval and worry reflected in her kind face.( She was worried? Why would she be worried about him – they barely knew each other).

“It’s fine, it’s not what you think…really."

He looked at his hand again, tugged at the thread, unable to meet her penetrating gaze.

“Hmm… but you’re feeling guilty, so he doesn’t know does he?” she regarded him thoughtfully.

He dipped his left hand into the front pocket of his jeans and his fingers brushed against a small square plastic packet, pushed down into the corner, the cocaine that Trent had shoved in there while he had Sherlock pinned against the brick wall. He didn’t know why he hadn’t told John, maybe it was because he was still blissfully unaware of the more unsavoury aspects of Sherlock’s past, and that if John did find out, he wouldn’t want to see him anymore.

Sherlock liked to believe sometimes that he’d changed, he was ‘better’ now, but he knew that sometimes he still lived on a knife-edge, treading a thin line between the light and the dark, and today the fate of a tiny bag of white powder stood between John and the darkness.

“No, he doesn’t know, he can’t know…I’ll get rid of it, it was just a mistake you see, this bloke, he gave it to me, I didn’t want it, or buy it, he just put it there, in my pocket”, even he could hear the pleading tone in his voice.

“It would just upset me so much to see an intelligent young man like you fall in with the wrong crowd, especially seeing how that lovely boy down there adores you so much. Do the right thing dear. Don’t spoil things for yourself….or him”, she patted his arm affectionately.

“Come on now, breakfast will be getting cold, and you owe me an explanation too, don’t you?”

Sherlock, feeling thoroughly chastened, followed her down the stairs.

When they entered the kitchen John was sitting at the table, happily munching on toast and jam, and sipping at a mug of tea. He glanced warily at Sherlock’s downcast eyes, no doubt vividly imagining the thoroughly awkward conversation that had just taken place, (lock-picks, breaking and entering, illicit sex) all of which were thankfully far off the mark to Sherlock’s mind.

Mrs Hudson indicated to Sherlock to sit and took the seat across from him, arms folded in front of her body and lips pursed.

“So”, Mrs Hudson began “Exactly why did I find you two getting cosy in my empty flat last night? Isn’t there somewhere else you can do all that malarkey? What on earth made you think you had a right to do that? Really boys, I don’t understand!” she threw her hands up in consternation.

“We came to warn you” Sherlock said quietly.

“Warn me? Why ever would you need to do that?, she said, perplexed.

“We encountered, shall we say, someone last night who claimed to know your husband, Frank, and he made certain….threats…or rather indicated that Frank was the subject of some….displeasure…amongst some pretty disreputable characters”

Sherlock chose his words carefully. Mrs Hudson looked confused, as she attempted to decipher the meaning behind Sherlock’s convoluted explanation. John saw her puzzled expression and clarified by adding,

“Someone is planning to shoot your husband apparently – in the head”.

“Oh my!” her hands shot to her face in alarm as she attempted to stifle a cry.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John

“I was attempting subtlety and consideration for the feelings of others John, thank you for your helpful contribution” (too sarcastic?) John looked crestfallen

“Sorry” he mumbled as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took a large gulp of tea, simply to give his mouth something harmless to do.

(Nice one Sherlock and your fucking acid tongue)

Mrs Hudson sat quietly, her chest heaved as she trembled slightly. With the most shocking aspect of the news revealed, he continued calmly, as she regarded him tearfully.

“We came to warn you, and to see if you were alright, but when we arrived, the house looked…odd…too empty”.

Sherlock looked at her earnestly, willing her to understand why he had chosen to do what he did.

“I know it probably doesn’t make sense, or excuse what happened after that….”

He hesitated, then continued, “We thought we should at least wait to see that you came home safely, they sounded like dangerous people”

He didn’t add the element of personal acquaintance to his statement, because John remained at present, thankfully unaware.

She sighed, breath hitching with emotion and laid a small, warm hand over Sherlock’s pressed palms.

“Thank you dear, for your honesty. You meant well, I’m not angry, well not anymore, the time to be angry would have been last night when I found you here, but after what you both did for me on Monday I thought I should at least hear you out” she attempted a weak smile.

“It could explain one or two strange things though” she added, frowning.

Sherlock’s head snapped up, giving her his full attention, and John leaned forward in his chair, eager to hear this new revelation.

“I rushed out last night because I got a phone call from Frank’s manager, down at the club. There had been a bit of a scuffle apparently, just some silly men being drunk and rowdy by all accounts, and a couple of the girls got caught up in the mayhem. He asked me to look after them, take them down to A&E for a once-over….nothing serious, just cuts and bruises and a sprained ankle, but they were frightened out of their wits poor loves, said they hadn’t seen any of those men before, not part of the usual crowd it seemed”

Sherlock regarded her thoughtfully, it was the truth, he decided, but a carefully edited version of the truth nonetheless. Best not push it though, they had abused her hospitality enough on this occasion. Besides, he thought, it would be quite easy to acquire the incident report if the police had been involved, and the names of those girls would be extremely useful, perhaps take John, he had a certain way with women….

Sherlock tried to conceal his smile of satisfaction as a plan of action formulated in his head. Mrs Hudson was still talking, he realised and now was hardly the time to apply his mental filter.

He tried to look attentive.

“And you know how long they keep you waiting in those places don’t you? Who would have thought it could take so long to get a bloody x-ray!”

(John, thankfully, was nodding and humming in all the right places, seemingly rapt with attention)

“Well I guessed straight away there was someone in here when I got back, a funny feeling in your bones"

(Sherlock resisted the urge to tut derisively).

"And burglars don’t normally bring their own supper I imagine (her mouth quirked up in the ghost of a smile), Singapore chow mein from the Golden Dragon at the end of Baker Street no less, so I followed the smell upstairs and there you both were, all curled up, sleeping like babies. I hadn’t the heart to wake you” her smile was genuine now.

Sherlock felt a momentary pang of guilt and gratitude. Last night could so easily have ended in a cold damp prison cell and the wrath of Mycroft (although that would be forthcoming anyway owing to a second night of escapology), instead it had been….perfect?

Well, all the bits at 221B anyway.

“Well we’re really sorry Mrs Hudson, it won’t happen again” John said with sincerity.

“No dear, it won’t” she said firmly, “Just give me some warning next time and I’ll get the bed made up properly, I can’t imagine how you both had a good night’s sleep sticking to all that leather!”

John choked on a mouthful of tea.

~*~

Twenty minutes later they stood on the pavement outside 221B.

It was 8am and Sherlock shivered slightly in the early morning air. A typical autumn day in London, cloudy and grey.

“Fuck!, I’m a dead man if I don’t make it to school on time”.

He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, restless and impatient as they waited for a cab to appear.

“Maybe we should head for the high street, or take the tube?” John offered hesistently.

The effort it would take to fight the hoards of grumpy commuters was not an especially pleasant prospect. Sherlock apparently agreed vociferously.

“Ugh! Public transport! Sweaty armpits and bad breath, people sneezing all over the back of your head, and all the unnecessary touching” Sherlock grimaced.

“Okay princess, taxi it is!” John laughed at the indignant look on his face as he processed the word ‘princess’.

“How much money do you have? School is in the opposite direction to your flat you know”

John sagged a little, this was not good news, there was no way he had enough cash left for an extended taxi ride in the early morning traffic so that could only mean one thing. Guess who would draw the short straw and have to play influenza roulette on the Underground?

He dug his hand deep into his pocket and pulled out a ten pound note and a few one pound coins – just as he had thought.

“Shit, not enough” he huffed in annoyance. “Look, you take the tenner and get a cab, can’t have you getting suspended from school or something”

(Sherlock shrugged as if he couldn’t give a fuck whether he did or not)

“I’ll take the tube, I don’t have any lectures until eleven, and they’re just intro’s, non-compulsory stuff” he pushed the money into Sherlock’s palm.

“Ha! This feels a little bit like payment for services rendered” Sherlock smirked. (the cheeky bastard! John thought)

“Oh, fuck off Sherlock, you idiot!”

Oh god. Now was the awkward goodbye moment. What the fuck was he supposed to do? Just say bye, see ya, and walk away? Arrange another date? Kiss him? In public? In the daylight?

John squirmed slightly with embarrassment and uncertainty.

(Come on Watson, for fuck’s sake, you can’t just hover in uncomfortable silence, you had your cock inside his arse last night).

“Er…when can I see you again?”

John groaned inwardly. (Excellent choice Watson, could you have possibly sounded more needy and pathetic?) But Sherlock’s face glowed with pleasure.

“I would see you tonight if I could” he said in a rush “You did sort of promise me something…”

(Had he? What had he said? Oh god that!)

Sherlock stopped bouncing and fidgeting long enough to move closer to John. He invaded his personal space with practised ease and casually cupped his arse with both hands and squeezed

“You promised me… this…remember” he whispered into John’s ear, tickling the downy hairs on the side of his neck.

(Oh god yes – fuck!)

John glanced nervously up and down the street, no-one was watching. He pressed up on his toes for a soft chaste kiss, but Sherlock caught him in a full-on snog, bullying his tongue into John’s mouth and pulling on his bottom lip with his teeth. John was embarrassed by the involuntary moan which escaped his lips and Sherlock hummed against him in amusement.

“Oh my god , I can’t believe you just did that you cock!”

John gasped as a middle –aged couple walking a golden retriever walked past them on the other side of the street, frowning in obvious disapproval.

“Well, you sort of gave the impression you rather enjoyed that actually”

Sherlock looked down pointedly at the front of John’s jeans and the tell-tale tightness there. John closed his eyes and sighed, he did that on purpose the fucking bastard!.

A taxi swept into view and Sherlock thrust out a long arm to beckon it over. With one final longing glance he climbed into the back of the cab and wound down the window to deliver his parting shot.

“Good luck hiding that on the tube – don’t stand too close to anyone and watch out for the vibrations”

John flipped him off good naturedly and stood watching long after the taxi had moved out of sight.. His stomach clenched, every time Sherlock left he had the inexplicable feeling he might never see him again, that holding on to him was like trying to hold smoke in his hands.

He shuffled towards the tube station willing away his erection with every step.

~*~

By the time John had made it out of the tenth circle of hell that was the London Underground during rush hour, he felt filthy and irritated and desperate for another cleansing shower (solo this time, regrettably) and not at all horny anymore.

The very last thing he expected , or wanted for that matter, as he trudged wearily along the tree-lined avenue that led to his flat, was the sudden appearance of a large black executive car. It slowed as it approached from behind, and cruised along the kerb at walking pace.

What the fuck! This wasn’t exactly the area to cruise for that sort of business.

Did he really look that fucking rough?

He kept walking, head down, and increased his pace to just short of a jog. The car followed and sped up slightly before gliding to a halt twenty metres or so ahead. The rear passenger door popped open.

John briefly considered the possibility of some weird sort of Men In Black shit before he had a moment realisation.

Oh god, this could not be good.

“Get in Mr Watson, if you would be so kind, I’d appreciate a quick word on a rather pressing matter”

An unctuous, condescending voice drawled from the vicinity of the back seat. He peered cautiously through the open door.

“I don’t bite Mr Watson, I can assure you” the voice continued with added sarcasm.

“If it helps to quell your obvious apprehension, my name is Mycroft Holmes, and I believe you are….acquainted….(he let the word hang in the air, both an accusation and a challenge) with my younger brother, Sherlock”

Who the hell did this posh smarmy git think he was? Did he think he could intimidate John with all this obvious wealth and power? Well, maybe a little bit, John thought ruefully, but he was damned if he was going to let the bastard think he had him rattled. John didn’t know what else to do, so he dashed off a quick text to Sherlock

**(Help! Kidnapped by a big black car of death – JW** ) and climbed awkwardly into the back seat.

 The door shut with an ominous ‘clunk’.

Mycroft Holmes sat, immaculate and poised, back poker straight on the black leather seat. He regarded John owlishly.

The first thing John observed was that physically, he bore little resemblance to his brother. Sherlock was stunning, aesthetically a work of art, chiselled perfection, and while Mycroft was similarly tall, the sharp edges and angles which made Sherlock so unique were missing, a softer more rounded shape apparent

(Fat, Sherlock had said, untruthfully John had to admit, although next to Sherlock’s thoroughbred proportions anyone would appear fat).

He was about mid-twenties John guessed, with dark auburn hair, already receding at the temples and a longer, more pointed nose which he was currently looking down in a distinctly condescending way, as if John was a particularly unpleasant smell.

His eyes lacked the kaleidoscopic vibrancy that Sherlock’s had, but his gaze was equally as penetrating, subjecting John to the same soul-stripping scrutiny he had felt when he had first encountered Sherlock – was it really only two days ago?

Mycroft gave a polite cough.

“Don’t look so worried Mr Watson, I merely wish to have a little….chat….”, he smiled, a mere assimilation of pleasant, his watery blue eyes remained cold and untouched.

John ground his back teeth together and his jaw twitched in irritation. He wasn’t worried, just bloody pissed off at being waylaid by this dickhead on his way home from another mental night out.

“I believe that you have spent some considerable time ‘enjoying’ (a sarcastic chuckle) Sherlock’s company.”

“I’ve only known him for two days, I’d hardly call that considerable” John snapped, he was fucked if he would let this wanker lord it over him.

“Ah, I see you misunderstand me, under ‘normal’ circumstances it would indeed appear to be a trifling amount, but as I am sure you are aware the word ‘normal’ can hardly be applied when it comes to Sherlock and his….activities” (again that fucking irritating pause for effect – John seethed inwardly)

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that actually, I just know that I like him, and I think he’s pretty fucking amazing in fact, so what’s your point exactly?”

Mycroft ran his two perfectly manicured hands down his thighs to smooth the already flawless dark grey wool and glared up at John through hooded lids.

“My point Mr Watson is that this occurance is most unprecedented. My brother is apt to bestow his affections, how shall I put this?....rather _generously_ to say the least."

John stiffened. There could be no mistaking Mycroft’s meaning this time, that Sherlock was basically whoring around. Sherlock had suggested to him when they first met that it was not the first time he had had such an ‘encounter’ post-gig and John certainly wasn’t naïve enough to think that anyway despite his obvious lack of experience.

“I must admit Mr Watson… may I call you John actually? He continued without waiting for affirmation, “I find myself intrigued. Who could possibly have captivated my brother so completely? I must congratulate you John, you are the only one thus far who has managed to hold on to my brother until morning and earned a repeat…. _performance_ … into the bargain”

Seriously, John thought, if he didn’t stop with the fucking innuendo he was going to end up with John’s fist in his face.

His clenched knuckles itched at his sides.

“I merely wish to extend the hand of friendship John, and to invite you to join us for dinner on Friday. Would that be convenient?"

Convenient? What the hell! John didn’t believe for one second that Mycroft gave a shit about what would be convenient to him, there was a catch here somewhere, he was sure.

“I believe we should further our acquaintance, with Sherlock’s full approval of course. I wouldn’t dream of forcing either of you to do anything against your will”.

Right, he was definitely reading John’s mind, or just reading him, exactly the way Sherlock did – oh fuck! Mycroft smiled graciously and ran his fingertips sinuously up and down the curved walnut handle of a very expensive looking umbrella.

John paused to consider.

A dinner invitation? It wasn’t exactly what he’d been expecting from this conversation, a warning maybe, a keep away from my brother speech , yes, not a handshake and a meal. This was confusing and he was more than a little disconcerted.

Unless this was some underhanded ploy to humiliate John, the ordinary boy from an ordinary middle class family (albeit a one parent family now) amongst the wealthy Holmes’s. Sherlock hadn’t told him anything specific about his background, but the private education and a posh London address screamed money and class. John tugged at the hem of his TopMan t-shirt absently.

“One small favour if I may, John, this liaison could become something of a distraction if it continues, and my brother is currently attending the only the only school within a thirty mile radius that has been willing to take him this year. It would be most inconvenient if he should find himself permanently excluded yet again. I therefore suggest a short hiatus, until Friday evening at least. I’m sure you can both control your _‘urges_ ’ until then” the hint of a smirk played at the corner of his mouth as he levelled his gaze at John.

John clenched his teeth and counted to ten, slowly, but he had reached his limit and just couldn’t let that one pass (oh for fuck’s sake)

“I’m not on a permanent mission to get in his pants every five minutes you know, despite what you obviously think” he spat.

Mycroft continued to observe him with barely concealed amusement, just the slightest raising of the eyebrows.

John continued in a calmer tone “Dinner would be good yeah, thanks for asking, I’m sure it will be …..interesting”

(yeah it would probably be a fucking blood bath, but he was willing to play along, let’s see what you’ve got Mycroft)

“John, please understand my concerns, the last such attatchment that Sherlock formed ended rather… _badly_ ….shall we say”.

John sighed, a slight crack in the mask then, underneath all the snark and theatrics it did boil down to plain old brotherly concern. He could understand that. He had spent a lifetime worrying about Harry, and she him in her own twisted way, and he could see that with Sherlock there would be so bloody much to worry about, he was such a fucking hot mess, but he still didn’t think that was all there was to this, that Mycroft had his own agenda.

The door clicked open, the interview apparently at an end.

John kept his face carefully blank, determined not to show his relief that this ordeal was finally over.

“Good day John, sorry to have kept you so long. I’ll look forward to Friday evening then. If you could be ready for seven thirty shall we say? I will arrange to send a car for you”.

John opened his mouth to protest.

“No, no, I insist, and incidentally, smart casual attire will suffice, no need to stand on ceremony, it’s only an informal family dinner after all”.

John reached for the handle gratefully and pushed his way out into the daylight.

In the intervening time the sun had burnt through the hazy clouds and he squinted in the glare.

He checked his phone which had buzzed a couple of times in his pocket, not daring to answer in Mycroft’s presence, in case he could somehow telepathically read every word. (John wouldn’t have been at all surprised if this were true now that he had actually met him in person).

**Fucking Mycroft. What a drama queen – SH**

John chuckled.

**Don’t trust a word he says. He’ll try and fuck with your head – SH**

Well that had certainly been true. John typed out a reply.

**Invited for dinner Friday – what do you think? – JW**

**I think Mycroft is evil, but I still want you to come – SH**

Oh god, he was actually going to a family dinner at Sherlock’s house, with Sherlock’s family, this wasn’t just a ‘thing’ any more was it?

Two more messages

**I will insist on overnight guests though – SH**

**I’m going to fuck you in my bed –SH**

And for the second time that morning, John was the victim of a sudden and inappropriate Sherlock-inflicted erection.

This time he chose to run not walk, crashing through doors and taking the stairs three at a time. He raced towards his room, and fumbled desperately for his key card, top button of his jeans already undone, left hand already shoved down inside his pants. He had just managed to slam the door shut with his back and was sloppily fisting his aching cock when his phone buzzed again.

**John – What the fuck did we do with the condom from last night? – SH**

**SHIT!**

~*~

The large black car pulled away from the kerb, did a smart u-turn and re-joined the flow of traffic back in to central London.

Mycroft Holmes reclined on the leather seat and sighed. That had really gone rather well, he thought. John Watson had made a surprising impression. Steady gaze (lesser men had quailed under the scrutiny of Mycroft Holmes), not easily intimidated, obviously, very defensive in the face of any criticism levelled at Sherlock. He was certainly showing a high degree of loyalty towards his brother, very quickly indeed. But there were also some aspects of this association that troubled him greatly.

From the report supplied with such expediency by Anthea, Mr Watson was, until two days ago, to all intents and purposes, heterosexual, complete with adorable high school sweetheart. Could Sherlock really have instantly unlocked some sort of latent homosexuality, or was his brother merely a passing phase, an experiment perhaps, in John Watson’s journey of self-discovery?

Mycroft feared the consequences if such worries came to fruition. Sherlock was much more emotionally fragile than he would ever admit, as demonstrated so devastatingly by his liaison with Victor Trevor. A forced separation had been a necessary evil. A sexual relationship between a sixteen year old boy (with a large question mark as to whether things had become ‘physical’ while Sherlock was underage – Mycroft was positive that they had) and a twenty-one year old male government employee would have been highly inappropriate and damaging to all parties involved. But Sherlock had reacted badly, very badly indeed. Mycroft had underestimated the depth of his attatchment, and twenty-one months later the shock waves still reverberated (six different schools, an arrest and an enforced stay in a rehabilitation centre in June of this year for substance abuse).

Sherlock could not afford to spin out of control again.

Mycroft blamed himself of course, for failing to notice sooner. In an unforgiveable lapse of judgement he had preferred to believe that Sherlock had finally made a friend, that he was attempting more social integration and learning to curb his anti-social impulses, rudeness and impatience, and he had been grateful to Victor for giving Sherlock his time and attention, not realising….not knowing what they were….

Mycroft ran his hands over his face in frustration. Whether Victor had invited or encouraged Sherlock’s advances or whether his brother had been seduced Mycroft still wasn’t entirely sure as Sherlock refused to speak about the entire incident, but he was painfully aware of how singularly persuasive and alluring his brother could be when he decided to turn on the charm. Add to this his natural charisma (when he wasn’t being deliberately repellent) and physical appearance…. well, let’s just say Sherlock had a very particular way to get what he wanted.

And he appeared to want John Watson.

Friday evening would be a test of Mr Watson’s loyalty and resolve. How far was he willing to go to be with Sherlock. Just how hard could he be pushed before he broke? Mycroft had phone calls to make, plans to finalise.

“Ah Anthea, the guest list for Friday evening, if you could add the following names please…..”

~*~

Mycroft really was a diabolical bastard, Sherlock thought, not for the first time, as he strolled nonchalantly across the football field to the changing rooms, and his locker.

The bell would ring for registration in ten minutes, just enough time to change out of his clothes and into his spare uniform (this wasn’t the first time he had done the walk of shame on a school day), but he refused to hurry. Sherlock only ran when he wanted to, school could bloody well wait. The lack of books didn’t perturb him either, he could blag all the lessons without them, it wasn’t difficult – attendance was a mere formality at this point as he had long ago outstripped his peers intellectually.

So Mycroft was planning a cosy little Friday night get together was he? Ha! He was obviously concocting some fiendish plan to drive John away now that he had become the focus of Sherlock’s attention. Mycroft never could stand not being the centre of the universe the selfish bastard. Anyway, he had Greg, so why should he care so much about who Sherlock was screwing?

He would enjoy Friday immensely, and make a particular point of fucking John very thoroughly and very loudly right under Mycroft’s abnormally large nose.

He crossed over the running track and crunched along the gravel pathway to the gym, pushing open the heavy double doors, a swoosh of air blew his hair back across his face.

The changing rooms were thankfully deserted. Sherlock hated coming here and avoided all school sport- related activities whenever possible, but they happened to contain all the year thirteen lockers, so today it was a necessary evil. He quickly stripped, pulled off his t-shirt, belt and unbuttoned his jeans, sliding them down his thighs and hitching them over his ankles with one hand to avoid them bunching up inside-out. His house key and lock-pick dropped out of his pocket, clinking on the cracked terracotta tiles and he swiftly stooped to retrieve them, standing in only his pants now (clean thanks to Mrs Hudson). He pushed them back into the front pocket and drew his hand back anxiously as fingers brushed against cool plastic.

Oh fuck.

He had Class A drugs in school. Why hadn’t he just ditched the fucking cocaine at the first available opportunity? A rubbish bin, flushed down the toilet, tipped down the kitchen sink and rinsed away, anything. But no, they were still here taunting him, tempting him.

Just one line Sherlock, you know you want to….

Fuck.

His stomach felt like a writhing pit of vipers as he leaned forward and pressed his brow against cool metal, half-stripped, naked desire in his veins exposed. He could taste the bitter tang of bile rising in the back of his throat and his mouth filled with water, his fingers clasped and unclasped convulsively around the bag of powder…..

Footsteps, the door opened, a harsh barking laugh split the silence – he stuffed the bag out of sight with shaking fingers.

“Huh look, if it isn’t Sherlock Homo”

Ah right. This he could deal with.

James Tanner, school dickhead and bully. He was a thick as pig- shit, inbred, homophobic lowlife. He had singled Sherlock out at the beginning of the term as the lucky recipient of his own particularly repellent form of abuse. Usually he just ignored it, treated him with the contempt he deserved.

Not today.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Look at that fucking sucker on your neck Homo, Jesus Christ you’re such a dirty fucking queer” the idiot leered as he came up behind him.

Sherlock could feel his putrid breath on the back of his neck, hot and disgusting.

Sherlock rounded on him, turning swiftly and grabbing his meaty lapels. He propelled him through one hundred and eighty degrees and slammed his back into the row of lockers which clashed and rocked in protest. He was already on edge, wired, and in no mood to be fucked with.

“ Yes James” he growled “ I had sex last night with my _boyfriend_ . I let him take me up the arse with his massive cock and I came so hard I saw stars – and you know what? I fucking _loved_ it! It was fucking fantastic, and I pity you, because you will never feel anything close to that, not ever. Now fuck off back to your tedious girlfriend, a lifetime of boring, soul-sucking, vanilla sex awaits.”

James looked like a stunned codfish, mouth gaping stupidly.

Sherlock couldn’t resist a final assault.

“She won’t even blow you though will she James? That’s why you sit at the back of the Biology lab fantasising about my lips wrapped around your tiny cock and my finger up your arsehole isn’t it?”

(It was true – he had observed the dilated pupils and increased breathing rate, oh, and the hand surreptitiously adjusting himself in his trousers because just staring at Sherlock had made him half-hard),

“Holmes!”

The deep, brusque voice of Mr Coulson, the Games teacher rang out, echoing around the large space.

In the moment of distraction Sherlock felt his head snap back as a fist made contact with the side of his jaw. He bit down into the side of his tongue and tasted the copper tang of blood. Pain bloomed around his cheekbone and a warm wet trickle traced a sticky track down his face.

He cupped his jaw, working it back and forward with a wince – nothing broken, he’d had alot worse for much less.

“Tanner, my office now!” Mr Coulson bellowed.

James picked himself up from where he was, still slumped against the locker where Sherlock had thrown him, rubbing his knuckles.

“I’m not finished with you yet, faggot” he hissed as he pushed his way past Sherlock, his arm brushing (deliberately?) against Sherlock’s unclothed hip and thigh.

“You!” the teacher stabbed a finger viciously in Sherlock’s direction, “put some clothes on for god’s sake then you can get your worthless arse to the Headmaster’s office”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. Why was he the only one in major trouble?

“And you can just keep you smart mouth shut from now on, you cocky little shit, because that’s what got you into this mess isn’t it? Now hurry the fuck up!”

James shot him a parting look of triumph as he followed Mr Coulson through the heavy door.

Sherlock wrenched his locker open angrily, pulling on his shirt and trousers. He left the tie off and undid a couple of buttons too so that his lovely purple John-shaped mark was on full display just above his collarbone. Using last night’s t-shirt, he wet the material in one of the cracked ceramic sinks and dabbed carefully at the blood on his cheek. The cut was small and shallow, but surrounded by a bloom of pink and purple and it hurt if he pressed down too hard. He gave a hoarse chuckle at the irony, that he had escaped unscathed last night from a drug-dealer intent on force-feeding him cocaine and had his face smacked by some pathetic tosser at school a few hours later after letting his guard down for a split second.

Before he turned to leave he grabbed his cigarettes and spare cash and pocketed his house key (he had a whole set of lock picks at home), hesitating over the illicit drug stash.

Growling in frustration he stuffed jeans, blood-stained t-shirt, everything into his gym bag leaving only his sports kit behind, he had a feeling this would be his shortest day at school yet, and quite possibly his last.

If he was lucky the house would be empty for the rest of the day, and if the Headmaster made this quick, he might get home just in time to watch Jeremy Kyle on tv.

And he was _definitely_ not going to think about the drugs in his gym bag, and getting high.

~*~

It was Friday afternoon, exactly 55 hours since John had last seen Sherlock, when he had stolen his mouth, squeezed his arse and sent him shuffling off to the tube station in an embarrassing state of arousal.

He was bored and restless.

Not Sherlock-level bored, but pretty close and the reason was the distinct lack of a dark-haired stick of dynamite.

And frustrated, did he mention frustrated, oh and not forgetting the fact he was a walking nerve-ending owing to the fact he would soon be on his way to dinner at Sherlock’s big posh house.

He threw down his Gray’s Anatomy textbook, notepad and pen in frustration, four and a half fucking hours still to go!

He had agreed not to see him until today, but the total lack of contact was owing to the fact that Sherlock was in trouble – yet again.

John had received a garbled phone call at lunch time on Wednesday when Sherlock proclaimed that he hated the entire world (but not you John!) that school was a joke and that Mycroft was a fat wanker, before admitting that he’d been suspended until Monday morning for fighting

(I’ve got a fucking massive bruise – ON MY FACE JOHN!)

Christ, he could only have been there a couple of hours at the most, how much time did it take to get into that much shit (he thought about the events of Tuesday night, and Trent…) – well it was Sherlock after all, so pretty much instantly then?

Then Mycroft’s voice had oozed down the line (No, dinner was not cancelled, he should still be ready for seven thirty, but until then Sherlock would be on ‘lock-down’, no tv, no computer and no phone. The last he had heard was an indignant voice in the background shouting ‘as if you can stop me, idiot’ and a long-suffering sigh from Mycroft, ‘good day to you John’.

It was tortuous, John almost felt ill, like there was a hole in his chest or something. He was on edge but tired at the same time and the three pints he had consumed last night at the Railway Arms with Mike had turned his gut into a boiling vat of acid instead of making him pleasantly drunk as planned. He didn’t think it was even worth trying to text and risk sounding like a sad wanker because Mycroft probably had Sherlock’s phone, so he had currently reached the ‘suffer in silence’ stage, burying himself under a mountain of advance reading for lectures to pass the time.

He sighed,( it was pointless carrying on when he had just read the same sentence five times and not a word of it had hit a single brain cell) and reached over for his mug of tea, currently cooling on his desk, and took a long satisfying slurp. Might as well start getting ready now.

His phone buzzed loudly against the desktop beside him and still- slightly- too- hot tea slopped over the side of his mug onto his thumb making him swear profusely

(Fucking bastard shit wank!)

He sucked on the scalded digit and stared in surprise at the screen. A message from Sherlock. He had evidently found a way to bend Mycroft’s rules.

**I’m bored. I miss you –SH**

He smiled

**Me too! Can’t wait for tonight- JW**

**I need you now – SH**

**Just have a wank or something –JW**

**Already done that, still bored –SH**

What else was he supposed to suggest, a cold shower, a bracing walk, take up knitting?

**I tried to suck myself off but it didn’t work –SH**

**Oh god! Well for god’s sake don’t put your back out – JW**

**I won’t. I’ll save that for later. – SH**

**Good. I’m off to have a shower now –JW**

**How pointless if I’m not there – SH**

John couldn’t help agreeing with that last message, after Wednesday morning, showering alone was more than a little disappointing.

He turned on the spray and undressed. John’s outfit for tonight was hanging on the wardrobe door pressed and ready. His best pair of trousers (definitely not an occasion for jeans) the ones he had worn for a family wedding in June, dark blue, almost black really, and an eggshell blue cashmere sweater his mum had bought him as a going-away present. He had never worn it, too worried about how much it must have cost and the likelihood of spilling something on it or otherwise ruining it had preserved it in its current pristine state.

It was now 7.15 and John had done every possible thing he could think of to fill in the intervening hours, but his nerves were jangling once again. He wanted to wait until the last possible minute to dress, because at this rate he was sure he would sweat through any outfit in seconds even after half a can of deodorant. John was seriously considering another quick shower in a mild state of panic when his phone rang out from the bedside table An unfamiliar voice called out, brisk and efficient.

“Your car is ready Mr Watson”

“Er…okay? I’ll just be a couple of minutes”

Shitfuck . This was it then! He hung up and frantically pulled on trousers and sweater (too posh to call a jumper), shoved on his shoes and grabbed a few ‘essentials’ for later from his bedside table, stuffing them into the black backpack which would have to double as an overnight bag. He felt so out of his fucking league here, cashmere sweaters, private cars and posh dinner parties, and sex.

Sex with Sherlock, in Sherlock’s house with his brother probably just metres away, it was ridiculous.

A little bubble of panic rose in his throat and erupted in what could only be described as a snort-giggle-cough. Best not think too far ahead, there was a whole fucking meal to get through first. Oh god, not twenty different types of cutlery that John had no idea the function of? Another small trickle of sweat rolled down between his shoulder blades as he closed the door and he had to remind himself to take deep steady breaths, in and out, as he walked out towards the waiting car.

~*~

Sherlock paced up and down the terrace liked a caged tiger, cheeks sucked in deeply as he took a long drag on his second cigarette in ten minutes, the nicotine not yet having the desired effect.

Mycroft was being very secretive about the guest list for this evening. He knew it was to include work colleagues and a couple of other family friends perhaps, but Mycroft had been less than forthcoming on the finer details.

The most notable absence was Greg, in Sherlock’s opinion. He would have been useful to reign in Mycroft’s more blatant attempts at manipulation tonight, and Mycroft was undoubtedly more tolerable in his grounding presence, more ‘human’.

That tonight was some sort of acid test, Sherlock was in no doubt – what else could it be?

It was the culmination of a week of scheming and plotting, and Sherlock had merely added his own fuel to the fire after his own little mid-week drama.

Not only had he defied Mycroft yet again by sneaking off for the night with John, he had let some stupid twat at school piss him off and earned himself a fucking suspension. Sherlock had hoped it would be an expulsion, but Mycroft had pulled some strings by making promises of funding for the beleaguered Science Department. That meant that Sherlock was extended the privilege of remaining at the stupid shit-hole of a school for the duration, after a suitable ‘punishment’ of course (because his behaviour really was ‘unacceptable’).

And James Tanner’s punishment for punching Sherlock in the face? Nothing. Fuck all. Just a ‘stern’ warning that he ‘might’ be benched for the next school football game if he was caught ‘arguing’ with another student again, specifically Sherlock.

Mycroft had twisted the knife further by issuing Sherlock with an ultimatum – if he attempted to see or speak to John before Friday (beyond the brief phone call on Wednesday lunchtime), dinner would still go ahead but John would not be welcome as an overnight guest.

The bastard.

He had known exactly how to make Sherlock cave in, because there was no way he was going to jeopardise the chance of fucking John in his own bed tonight (even though he had been officially allocated one of the guest rooms).

Sherlock stopped pacing and stood closer to the French doors, cupping his right elbow with his left hand, cigarette held aloft. Guests were arriving and John would be here any minute.

The thought of dragging John out onto the terrace and ramming his tongue down his throat as soon as he came through the door made Sherlock feel light-headed with lust. Oh god, he could barely breathe he was so fucking keyed-up and horny, and it was going to be at least another three or four fucking hours before he could peel off those clothes…

He stepped into the drawing room just as John came through the door, shucking off his jacket, eyes darting around awestruck as he took in his surroundings. Sherlock was sure his heart stopped beating for a second. Really, it must have done.

John Watson was a vision in blue cashmere, it picked out the colour of his eyes perfectly and clung to his perfectly toned frame in all the right places. Tiny nubs of nipple were just visible under the soft material and Sherlock felt crazy with the desire to rub his thumbs _just there_ to hear the little noises John would make.

He dug his fingernails into the top of his thigh, hard, and took a final drag on his cigarette before hurriedly stubbing it out against a terracotta plant pot.

John’s face lit up in a radiant smile when he saw Sherlock approach (that smile –for him!), his narrowing slightly as he took in the glowing bruise on his cheekbone (well he had said it was massive)

“Christ Sherlock, this place is fucking huge, and everyone else is wearing a suit, I feel like such a prat in this” he tugged despondently at the hem of the jumper, which exposed a little more creamy skin at his neck.

“Are you insane, you look…amazing…I just…”

John’s hand twitched at his side as he fought the urge to reach up and touch Sherlock’s face.

“I’ll fucking kill whoever did that to your face” he interrupted.

Sherlock thought he just looked so fierce and determined and just so fucking sexy that he needed to touch him now, and to hell with the rest of the guests.

He dragged John through the French doors and pinned him up against the outside wall eliciting a soft ‘Oomph’! as he knocked the breath from his lungs. He pressed their foreheads together and stood silently, breathing heavily as he peered at John through a mess of dishevelled curls, not sure if he could stop himself if they started this.

John reached his left hand up and tentatively stroked the nape of his neck just where hair gave way to soft sensitive skin and Sherlock was sure he would spontaneously combust. He angled his head down awkwardly, desperate to kiss, conscious of his smoky breath, holding back, but John decided for them, pushing up towards his parted lips and gently pressing on the back of his neck to bring Sherlock the rest of the way down.

Then it was tongues brushing softly, gentle nips and licks, a slight tug with eager teeth, and oh god, he just couldn’t stop the soft moan that escaped from his throat.

“Ahem”

An amused cough sounded from the vicinity of the open door and they sprang apart guiltily.

“When you have quite finished devouring John could you please come and greet the rest of our guests Sherlock”

How the hell did he manage to sneak around so quietly? He should teach a masterclass in stealth Sherlock thought angrily.

“And perhaps John would like to take the opportunity to freshen up a little, maybe a splash of _cold water_ hmm?”

Mycroft stared pointedly at Sherlock, anticipating a snarky comeback. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

John flashed him an apologetic look and pushed up from the wall, heading inside to the downstairs cloakroom.

“Hang on, I’ll come with you John”,

Sherlock made to follow, Mycroft could just piss off, he badly needed to continue this is private.

“Oh no Sherlock” Mycroft grasped him tightly by the wrist as he attempted to brush past, “you’ll do just fine as you are, you must come and say hello to Mrs Jessop, she’s simply dying to see you”.

Sherlock scowled as Mycroft levelled his gaze at him, evidently enjoying every agonizing minute as Sherlock desperately willed his cock to just stop thinking about John and cashmere sweaters and nipples…oh for fuck’s sake.

He gave in with a wince and gave his balls a hard tug downwards.

“All better?”

Mycroft smirked as he stood aside and waved Sherlock through the open door ahead of him. Sherlock glanced around the room, seeking out the shrill voice and clashing florals of Mrs Jessop, long-time neighbour and Mummy’s line-dancing partner (Mummy was currently touring the lakes with Aunt Marie and Uncle Henry).

He found her deep in conversation with a tall be-suited man of about Mycroft’s age, thick black hair and broad-shouldered. Similarly attired at his side, inspecting his fingernails and looking infinitely bored was a horribly familiar figure. (I hate you Mycroft)

“Ah, Mrs Jessop, I see you’ve already met my colleague Mason Wilkes, Sherlock,(he beckoned him over) I do believe you already know Mason’s brother Sebastian? –from Hampdon College I believe?”

Sherlock stiffened and drew a sharp breath that hissed over his back teeth (Kudos Mycroft, you have chosen well) as Sebastian grinned evilly at him.

Sherlock had attended Hampdon College boys boarding school between the ages of nine and sixteen (well, he had made it part way through year 11 anyway, leaving (expelled) just after Easter and sitting his GCSE’s privately while Mycroft looked for another school that would take him at short notice). But surprisingly (or not, really) few schools were willing to take on a boy recently expelled for smoking weed behind the Chemistry lab while already on a written warning after being caught in bed with two other boys (at the same time, not on separate occasions – a very enjoyable evening as Sherlock recalled).

Of course, Sebastian, having been in Sherlock’s form class as well as his dorm building, would be well versed in all of Sherlock’s ‘misdemeanours’.

At least Sherlock hadn’t fucked him, although there was that one birthday party when he sucked someone’s cock and he still, irritatingly, couldn’t remember who it was – it was dark and he had definitely been high that night.

Sebastian stuck out a sweaty palm for him to shake.

“Good to see you Sherlock, school is frightfully dull these days without you”

“Yes, I expect his antics were a constant source of amusement” Mycroft chuckled.

Sherlock’s lip curled slightly as he shook the proffered hand, releasing it quickly. He surreptitiously wiped his palm off on the side of his leg and toyed with the idea of excusing himself to wash his hands.

“Sebastian, you must regale us all with some suitably embarrassing tales of Sherlock’s Hampdon exploits. I’m always the last to hear all the salacious schoolboy gossip, I can assure you”

Sherlock’s hand was resting lightly on the dinner table, he stuck out his pinkie finger and ran it gently over the handle of a steak knife.

“What’s this about salacious gossip?”

Oh fuck! His back had been turned to the door and he hadn’t noticed John’s return. Mycroft, he realised, evidently had, and had timed his incriminating response accordingly (smooth move you fat wanker)

“Come on John, I need a drink” he spun John back around and pushed him towards the sideboard, not caring if he appeared rude, to where trays of white wine stood ready.

“Do keep off the brandy Sherlock” Mycroft called after him “Uncle Henry isn’t here to carry you to bed this time” everyone chuckled politely.

Sherlock huffed, impressive Mycroft, so he knew about that night in the study when he got rat-arsed on Mycroft’s finest and asked Victor to take him to bed ( in the ‘indelicate’ sense). He was certain Victor had said nothing because Sherlock had been fifteen at the time, and if Mycroft had sensed anything back then it would all have ended there. So he must have found out later…but how?

Images of Victor strapped to a chair, being waterboarded by MI6 flashed through his mind.

“What the fuck is up with your brother tonight, I knew he was probably planning some sort of headfuck, but he seems to be going above and beyond the call of duty to wind you up – is that what tonight is all about?”

John stared at him intently, breaking through his daydream as they stood close together sipping wine and trying not to blatantly touch each other. Sherlock shifted his weight to his right leg and was rewarded with delicious goosebumps as his right hand brushed against John’s left.

“I expect so, if he didn’t work for the government he would make a fucking exceptional criminal mastermind”

Sherlock took a large sip from his glass and shuddered as he swallowed. He bloody hated wine, where was the sodding vodka?

He opened a cupboard door hopefully.

“Look, relax Sherlock, I’m not stupid, I know Mycroft just wants to make you squirm like a fish on a hook and make me look like a tit. Harry can be a massive bitch when she’s trying to get one over on me, believe me, I’ve seen it all before, it’ll be fine”John said in a low voice, twiddling the stem of his empty glass between thumb and forefinger.

Sherlock huffed, still unconvinced. He stared at John’s hand, mesmerised by the movement of his fingers. It wasn’t fair, John was standing here beside him, looking so breathtakingly gorgeous, hair tousled to perfection (just begging for Sherlock to ruin it) and his arse in those trousers…god…and Mycroft was going to ruin it all. John would look at him and his expression would be so ‘disappointed’ and Sherlock couldn’t bear that, it would tear out his soul, so much worse than anger or even disgust.

He reached for another glass.

“Maybe some iced water?”

John put out a hand and gently caught his wrist. Sherlock nodded and withdrew from the wine as John filled tumblers from a large glass jug instead.

He glanced over his shoulder at his brother and found Mycroft eyeing John shrewdly. He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock and turned away, directing his attention back to his guests.

Score one to John.

“I didn’t get the chance to tell you before, out there when we were…kissing…(still a blush, still adorable) …you look fucking incredible in that suit” John whispered.

Sherlock pulled his special, one side of his mouth only, sexy grin as he drank in the praise.

He usually couldn’t care less what he wore, but tonight he had chosen carefully, for John. A tailored black suit and dark aubergine shirt which contrasted strikingly with his pale skin and was just a touch too small so that the buttons strained across his chest when he moved his arms. He had already caught John gawping more than once this evening.

He leaned in closer.

“And do you think I’ll look fucking incredible out of it later?”

“If everyone could take their places I think we are ready” Mycroft clapped his hands together, successfully ruining the moment yet again (tonight was going to be one long relentless cock-block, he was sure).

And then there was the seating plan. When had there ever been a fucking seating plan? Never, until tonight apparently.

Sherlock was seated next to Sebastian (a bit predictable Mycroft) and directly opposite John.

He toed off his shoe and stuck out his left leg experimentally, running his socked foot up the inside of John’s calf, rucking up his trousers, and John suddenly looked very interested in the embroidered pattern on his linen napkin (maybe this was alright after all).

He inched further up, made it to John’s knee and found he could rest it on the seat between John’s legs. He wiggled his toes and John sucked in a breath, inhaling his own saliva which triggered an explosive coughing fit.

Mycroft frowned at Sherlock’s perfectly innocent face.

But then, just as Sherlock had begun to feel he cope with this evening, Mycroft played his trump card.

A late addition, just arrived (‘ever so sorry, got stuck in terrible traffic through Westminster, almost taken out by a double- decker bus!’) Mycroft’s P.A. Anthea (only female P.A’s now after Sherlock fucked the previous one) and her very pretty eighteen year old sister, Charlotte, all long blonde hair and big bouncy breasts.

Oh, and what a surprise, Charlotte was seated next to John – such fun Mycroft!

“Hello Sherlock, how are you, haven’t seen you in ages” Charlotte gushed.

Sherlock simply nodded in acknowledgement.

The last time he had seen Charlotte had been when? Ah yes, delightful, it had been the week before he’d been sent to rehab, they had shared a joint in a bedroom at her best friend Rosie’s house, it was an end-of –term party if he remembered correctly. They all knew he was gay but that hadn’t stopped Charlotte from sticking her hand down his pants and inviting him to ‘lick her out’.

Needless to say he had declined.

Charming young woman, just the type to blatantly throw herself at any…hang on…not anyone, John.

She was already eyeing him appreciatively and holding out a delicate hand, French-polished to perfection, for John to shake.

And the idiot was shaking it, with a stupid, buggering grin on his face.

Sherlock stuck out his foot out as far as he could reach and successfully nudged John’s balls. John gave an undignified squeak and his knee shot up, banging on the underside of the table and making the crockery rattle.

“Shit, sorry cramp” he stuttered apologetically to Charlotte as he mimicked a ‘wincing’ face and rubbed at his leg.

He shot Sherlock a wide-eyed look and Sherlock raised his eyebrows in reply.

Mycroft looked smug from afar.

“So” Charlotte continued, unperturbed, “Anthea told me you just broke up with your girlfriend on Tuesday John, poor you, I hope you’re feeling okay now, break-ups can be so devastating” she patted the back of his hand sympathetically and Sherlock was struck with the sudden urge to rip her arm from its socket.

She was touching him for god’s sake!

Sherlock could feel Sebastian’s eyes burning a hole in the side of his face. He turned to glare at him and Seb sniggered, shaking his head in obvious amusement. He leaned closer and whispered in a low voice.

“I heard you were fucking good at sucking cock Sherlock, but a straight guy? Wow, that’s impressive even by your standards”

Sherlock forced a smile and was sure it came off as more of a grimace. He wouldn’t rise to the bait, Mycroft wanted a scene after all.

“How long did it take to turn him? I would’ve paid to see that happen”

Seb was a prick of epic proportions but that was going too far.

Before he could stop his treacherous tongue he lashed out,

“And when was the last time you got laid Seb?, four, no, five months ago, in a public toilet, it was over in less than three minutes and you didn’t even know his name, oh, and that’s just when you aren’t pretending to your family that you’re straight, how is the lovely Claire by the way? Does she still believe you’re saving yourself for marriage? so kindly fuck off Sebastian”.

Sebastian looked positively murderous – oh shit, why did he have such a big fucking mouth?

“So John”, Sebastian called his attention from across the table, “how do you and Sherlock know each other? He never did say how you met”.

“Oh..er” John glanced at Sherlock nervously, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Charlotte looked between them, rapt with attention.

“I went to see his band at the Student Union bar, we just got talking afterwards about music and…stuff”

Sherlock let out the breath he had been holding. Charlotte emitted an alarming squeak and clapped her hands together eagerly like a seal, her tits bouncing far too near John’s face, like an invitation.

“Oh my God Sherlock, I bet you look so fucking cute playing the guitar, in tight jeans with your gorgeous curly hair”.

She laughed at the horrified look on his face.

“Is Seb your new boyfriend then Sherlock?” She looked at them both expectantly.

Of course, she thought John was straight, hadn’t for a second considered that he and Sherlock were together. Sherlock gave her a withering look and felt strangely satisfied as he caught John glaring at Seb, eyes narrowed darkly.

“Er, no, Just an old school…friend, Mycroft invited him” he added hurriedly, keen to stress that none of this was his idea.

“Oh god Seb, do tell me what Sherlock was like at school. I’ll bet he got up to all sorts of mischief didn’t he?”

Charlotte looked positively gleeful, Sebastian looked triumphant, and John looked…far too interested.

Damn. This could be bad.

“Well you know he was expelled don’t you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes feigning boredom.

“Really Seb, is there anyone who doesn’t know that?, it’s so boring”.

“I don’t know” John piped up eagerly.

Sherlock wanted to shove him in the balls again and not in a nice way this time.

Mycroft was gazing at Mrs Jessop, watching her lips move with glazed eyes as he strained to hear their conversation.

“Well, everyone said it was the weed behind the Chem lab, but I think it was the threesome with the Head Boy and that French exchange student, Patrice or something wasn’t it Sherlock?”

“Oh god, you’re so bad Sherlock” Charlotte exclaimed “who was the one in the middle of the cock sandwich?”

John spat out his mouthful of water and pushed back from the table.

Sherlock’s stomach lurched horribly. Did this mean Mycroft had won? Was he going to leave?

He could see the anger flashing in John’s deep blue eyes and his hands clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles turning white as he squeezed them tightly. He couldn’t even meet Sherlock’s eyes as he muttered an excuse, a sudden need to use the bathroom or some such, as he hastily left the room.

“Don’t make this a contest to see who is the biggest slut Charlotte, I’m sure there’s plenty Anthea doesn’t know….yet” he hissed as he scraped back his chair on the polished oak floor.

 Charlotte at least had the decency to look ashamed as she shot her sister an anxious look, the adults thankfully unaware of the conversations’ turn for the scandalous. He felt physically sick, but he had to go after him, to say what, he didn’t know. Sherlock had hoped he could keep the worst hidden for a little longer at least, but apparently the plan was to expose all of Sherlock’s demons in one demented rush which would bury John under a sea of molten crazy.

No-one could stand firm in the face of such an onslaught.

He should have just stuck to what he did best, fuck around and don’t let anyone get too close…but not having John…

Sherlock could feel the blackness shimmering in his peripheral vision and white spots popped and danced before his eyes, he blundered towards the door like a blind man and Mycroft watched him go.

He burst out into the corridor.

“John! Don’t go, please!”

John stopped dead, a couple of paces ahead and whirled round to face him, eyes wide as he sucked in deep steadying breaths.

“Go? I’m not going anywhere Sherlock , you prat! The only reason I’m out here is because if I had to sit there and listen to that smug oily bastard for one more minute I would have ripped his fucking head off his shoulders…and if I did that…” he trailed off, his voice trembling with emotion, but which emotion? Why couldn’t Sherlock read him?

“Are you angry…at me?"

He tried, uncertainly. John had every right to be. He was dating a liar, a fraud, an emotional crippled slutty addict, and what John now knew was only the tip of a disaster movie-sized iceberg.

He stepped forward and caught Sherlock around the waist, thumbing lightly over the silky material of his shirt.

“Angry at you? No! Angry at that dickhead in there who thinks it’s so fucking funny to try and humiliate you in front of me? Yes! I know he knows about us Sherlock, that we’re together. What’s his problem? That I didn’t go to some thirty grand a year boarding school, or that he’s jealous or something, you didn’t want him back then and it’s some sort of twisted payback?”

“But…the things I’ve done…in the past”

John cut him off before he could continue.

“Look, I’m sure we’ll get to the whole ‘previous sexual encounters’ shit at some point, probably quite soon, but I’m not going to sit there and judge you like those ignorant bastards, especially when it’s fucking obvious how uncomfortable they’re making you feel…how can they not see that?”

“I don’t understand…why would you want me?…after hearing that”

“I like you…you’re amazing… you make me laugh…you’re a bit insane to be honest, all of it Sherlock…just…everything…I’m quite capable of making up my own mind about a person, and I can tell you for certain, there’s not a goddamn single thing I’ve seen or heard so far that has made me want you any less, not almost being stabbed on the first night, or running from a drug dealer, or breaking into someone’s house…in fact it’s the opposite really…I just want more and more and….fuck I need another drink or something, or a wall to punch, either would do ”

Sherlock sighed and curled his own arms around John’s waist and pulled him close, feeling the adrenaline pumping through John’s system, whole body poised for fight or flight.

They were both clearly mad.

Slowly John settled again, breathing calmed, heart rate reduced, tense muscles relaxed and pliant.

“Look”, John began again, voice softer this time “I got into a fair bit of trouble myself at school, after my Dad died, fighting, arguing with teachers, buggering off in the middle of the day because I couldn’t be arsed with any of it, and it’s just a guess, but I reckon you were trying to get expelled. You, getting caught smoking at school, really Sherlock? They only caught you because you wanted to be caught”

“Why would I do that?”

Sherlock didn’t add that he was right, that John had deduced him just as surely as Sherlock ever could to anyone else.

“Because you’re a bloody idiot, that’s why. And weed for god’s sake, why? As if the bloody cigarettes aren’t bad enough”.

(Ah, Doctor Watson, it’s so much worse than you could ever imagine)

“It slows me down sometimes, when it gets so full in here (he tapped the side of his head) that I can hardly breathe. I don’t do it any more though, not for months”

He didn’t mention the harder drugs and the three weeks in rehab, or the five other times he had been expelled from different schools. He didn’t mention the constant itch inside his brain, the noise and the chaos, the deep black pit and the whirling kaleidoscope and the blessed calm of the chemical high.

As John said, they would have those conversations later, not now, not tonight.

Just one more thing. He had to make sure.

“And you’re definitely not attracted to Charlotte?”

“What? No!” John looked genuinely offended that Sherlock would think that.

“Are you sure, she’s very pretty…for a girl”

“Well, you see, there’s this small problem” John smiled “She kind of has this ‘V’ where I’d rather see a ‘P’,"

he pulled Sherlock forward and ground their hips together purposefully.

Yes, thought Sherlock, definite attraction, specifically, to him, a male.

“But she touched you John. I’m the only one who’s allowed to do that now!”

Oh god, he was actually whining like a petulant child who didn’t want to share their favourite toy (too much?)

“Yeah well, I feel like that about whoever gave you this” John traced a fingertip lightly over Sherlock’s face, making him shiver.

“You should hope I never meet that person, because I swear to god I will hurt them”.

He kissed the dark bruise softly.

He meant it, Sherlock could tell. He felt a thrill of excitement run through his body. It wasn’t just words, an idle threat, John would lay hands on that person, James Tanner, in pure unadulterated violence.

He would spill blood, for Sherlock.

The thought of it really shouldn’t turn him on so much.

“Look, let’s just go back in there and choke down this meal so that we can bugger off and do…other stuff. I don’t know what Mycroft was trying to do tonight, split us up or something maybe, but it didn’t work, so maybe we should give him the finger so to speak”

John caressed his arse, lightly.

The thought of returning was much less appealing than the thought of pushing John into some enclosed space, right now, and biting, _just there…_

“And what did you have in mind John”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smiled. John grabbed his hand, linked their fingers and gripped tightly.

“This should send out the message loud and clear, don’t you think?"

“Can’t we just forget dinner? Food is boring John and I’m not hungry, not for food anyway”

“Yeah? Well I’m fucking starving, I couldn’t eat all day today because I was so bloody nervous about tonight, so just humour me will you? I’ll make a deal with you, how about we go and eat dinner and I’ll let you do whatever you want to me later”

John saw the devious look in Sherlock’s eye, the evil glint.

“Oh my god, what have I just said… nothing dangerous you lunatic!”

Sherlock dragged him towards the dining room door, suddenly ravenous.

“A deals a deal John!”

Eight pairs of eyes turned to look as they crossed the room to their seats. Sherlock didn’t care, it wasn’t as if it was a secret that he was gay, it was common knowledge amongst friends and family and Mummy had long ago stopped bemoaning the fact that she would never have a daughter-in law one day, but Mrs Jessop still stared at them wide-eyed, as if they were a pair of freakish oddities

“Why is that young man holding Sherlock’s hand Mycroft? Is he quite well?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes at them.

Sherlock heard the unspoken ‘can’t you bloody wait until after dinner’ and ignored it.

They let go only so they could sit down again.

Charlotte to her credit seemed completely unfazed that just half an hour go she was showing every intention of trying to get into John pants

“I should have known! I’m so sorry John, it should have been obvious, Sherlock always gets the cutest boys, because he’s so bloody gorgeous, it’s not fair!”

Sherlock looked smugly at Mycroft who nodded once then looked away.

Well played brother mine.

They had missed the starter, some god-awful pate that Sherlock hated anyway, but were just in time for lamb and minted potatoes, boring, inoffensive, Sherlock thought as he pushed it around his plate absently. He looked up, caught John frowning at him and hurriedly speared the smallest potato he could find and popped it in his mouth, chewing mechanically. Sebastian ignored them both, head down, sawing furiously at his lamb and Sherlock was quite proud that he resisted the urge to point out that the poor beast was already quite dead.

Dessert was altogether more successful, a chocolate and black cherry brownie, smothered in warm fudge sauce. Sherlock savoured every mouthful, turning his spoon over to suck every last morsel into his mouth, making tiny little Mmm’s of pleasure with every lick. John just stared at him wide-eyed, tongue licking over his bottom lip in a mirror gesture of Sherlock’s own. He pushed his own untouched plate towards Sherlock wordlessly and he devoured that too, holding his gaze as he gently stroked John’s inner thigh with his socked foot.

Anthea and Charlotte left around ten, and the rest of the guests soon after, leaving only Sebastian and Mason, waiting for the return of Mycroft’s driver. They retired to the study where a warm fire crackled in the grate, orange flames casting sinister shadows around the room. John sat on the long squashy sofa set at a right-angle to the hearth and Sherlock flopped down beside him, stretching out, cat-like with his head resting in John’s lap, closing his eyes as John’s fingertips drifted through his curls, smoothing them back from his brow and tucking them around his ears.

He sighed contentedly.

Sebastian sat down heavily in the chair opposite, nursing a glass of brandy. Sherlock’s eyes popped open when he heard a derisive snort.

“Never pegged you as one for _domestic bliss_ ” his tongue rolled sarcastically over the last two words.

John’s hand had stilled on his head, so Sherlock covered it with his own, coaxing him to stroke again. Jealous, John had said, maybe he was right. Sebastian emptied the rest of his drink in one large gulp.

“You need to be careful there John”, he jabbed an angry finger at John’s face, “he’s never been one to give it away for free, isn’t that right Sherlock?”

John exploded in a ball of fury, launching himself across the space between them. The glass tumbler fell to the floor, exploding into a thousand glittering shards, Sebastian pinned in place, arms flailing wildly, John’s hand at his throat as his face turned an alarming shade of purple.

Sebastian gurgled and choked, legs scrabbling wildly on the Chinese rug, hands clawing and scratching at John’s arms, trying to release the pressure around his neck.

“John!, John!”

Sherlock barely registered that the words came out of his own mouth as he flew to his side, pulling and tugging at a vice-like grip. They fell back together in a tangled heap only for John to spring back, fist drawn and then propelled forward connecting to Sebastian’s face with a meaty smack releasing a spray of scarlet droplets.

John shook out his hand and blew on his bleeding knuckles as Mycroft and Mason looked on in horror, the entire thing over in seconds.

Sherlock stood in front of John defensively.

He looked feral, red splatters on his face where he had stood too close, curls wildly tousled from John’s hand, just daring anyone to come near, to try and touch either of them.

“Leave, now…both of you!”

Mycroft found his voice at last and gestured angrily towards the door. John backed away, lip still curled in hate and disgust at the cowering figure doubled over in the chair, cradling his quite likely, broken, nose.

They stumbled out into the hallway, collapsing back against the wall, John still breathing heavily.

“That fucking bastard has been asking for that all night…I’m so sorry Sherlock, I really fucked up in there, just totally lost it…I’m…”

Whatever he was going to say was smothered by Sherlock’s mouth as he pushed up against him, crushing them together head to toe, red sticky fluid smeared between them as Sherlock nipped and sucked hungrily, swirling his tongue aggressively. He grabbed a handful of hair at John’s nape and pulled hard, hard enough to elicit a strangled gasp and John’s fingers pressing hard into already deep purple bruises at his hips.

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath at the pain and let a soft moan of pleasure, the signals scrambled in his head, he was sick, this was wrong, it hurt so much and it was so fucking good…

The door creaked open and they pushed away from each other guiltily.

If Mycroft noticed their smeared faces and ragged breathing, he said nothing, just signalled them towards the kitchen with a jerk of his head.

When he was satisfied they were out of sight he ushered his disgruntled guests out through the front door to the large black car waiting patiently by the kerb. The front door closed with a loud clunk.

They sat at the kitchen counter, eyeing each other warily, waiting for the wrath of Mycroft to descend. John hung his head as Mycroft entered the room but Sherlock met his gaze unflinching, eyes flashing defiantly.

“Quite the exhibition I must say Mr Watson” he drawled “ I can see we have a budding pugilist in our midst”

“Will he press charges?” Sherlock’s voice rang out, steady and clear.

Mycroft’s gaze passed back and forward between them both, as if considering something carefully in his head, making a decision before he answered.

“No, I think not. As I understand, significant amounts of alcohol were involved, as well as poor judgement. Mr Watson acted impulsively, although not without provocation it would seem. Mr Wilkes accepts this, there will be no further action taken, I can guarantee as much”

John released a tense breath and Sherlock nodded his gratitude.

“Now this evening has been taxing enough, I am expecting Greg shortly and do not wish to be disturbed any further tonight. May I suggest you both clam down, get some rest, some sleep, after you clean yourselves up of course, you look like a crime scene” he curled his lip.

John slouched towards the door, eager to escape Mycroft’s disdainful stare.

“A moment Sherlock, if you would”

John looked back at him expectantly and Sherlock nodded his reassurance, that he should just leave without him. He hovered uncertainly before his brother.

“I must admit I’m mildly impressed Sherlock, how quaint, defending your honour as if you were some sort of damsel in distress”

“Sebastian deserved it” Sherlock barked, defiantly.

“Yes, I imagine he did…you do understand what this means Sherlock? I do hope you know what you are doing”

Before he could formulate a coherent answer, process the hidden implication, Mycroft swept out of the room and marched back into his study, interview over.

~*~

Sherlock climbed the long staircase to his room, inexplicably nervous tonight. It felt different, it meant more, something had shifted in the last few hours, the balance had tipped and he no longer felt quite so in control. His mind was still racing, a heady mix of anger, lust, blood and John. He passed by the guest room, desperate to simply throw open the door and just take, breathless with just the thought of it, but he held back, it wouldn’t be right and this had to be right tonight…it just had to be…

He entered his own messy room, an extension of his cluttered mind and frantically swept the worst of the detritus into cupboards and drawers, clearing the bed and plumping the pillows. He smoothed down the duvet and kicked a pile of crumpled clothes far underneath the bedstead, it would have to do. It occurred to Sherlock as he surveyed the newly cleared covers, that he had never tidied his room for anyone in his life before. Now he needed to clean himself, so he padded to the bathroom and turned on his shower, eager to wash away the stench of Sebastian Wilkes, cleanse his body and start anew.

He was just stepping back into the room when he heard a soft tentative tapping at the door and a tousled blond head peered around it cautiously. John had shower damp hair and pink skin from the heat of the water, dressed in a rumpled blue t-shirt and old grey pyjama pants which sat low on his hips. He ruffled a hand through his hair in a slightly nervous gesture and the hem of his shirt lifted to reveal toned creamy abdominals and a smattering of golden hair below his navel. Sherlock simply stared.

“Erm…I wasn’t sure whether I should come after…you know, just smashing one of your guests faces in…Isn’t Mycroft pissed off with me?” John said.

“Well , it was partly his fault if you think about it, he invited Seb to cause trouble after all.” Sherlock shrugged.

“Have you any idea how much of a turn on that was?” he added in a rush.

“What? Me covered in someone else’s blood?”

“Yes”

Sherlock gulped, aware that this could be considered a bit not good by ordinary standards.

It was lucky for him then that John Watson was proving far from ordinary.

“Yeah, I kind of got the impression that you liked it when you attacked me in the corridor straight after…you really are a bit of a kinky bastard aren’t you Sherlock?”

“And that’s…..Bad?” his chest felt tight with apprehension.

“Fuck no!”

John closed the gap between them in a rush, pushing firmly on Sherlock’s shoulders, backing him towards the bed. His knees gave out as they hit the side of the mattress and they fell in a heap, John sprawled on top of him, mouthing and sucking at his neck like a starving man. Sherlock could only cling to him, long legs lifting to wrap around John’s body as he cradled his skull and pulled lightly at his hair, the thin material of their pyjama’s doing nothing to conceal their erections. John ground their hips together which made Sherlock arch his neck even more. Oh god, he felt like he was drowning.

“You’re just as fucking insane as I am, aren’t you?” he gasped as he pulled up the back of John’s t-shirt and raked his nails down John’s back leaving a trail of light pink scratches.

“I think I am”

John lifted his head only long enough to answer and then dived back down, moving down Sherlock’s body to nip and suck hard on a nipple. Sherlock let out an ‘Ah’ of surprise and John did it again, harder this time, biting and pulling with his teeth as Sherlock writhed underneath him.

It hurt, it really fucking hurt, but he liked it, wanted more of it and that felt wonderful and fucking terrifying at the same time. How could he feel pleasure out of pain? Want John to hurt him and be so incredibly turned on?

“You like that, you love it don’t you?”

John murmured against his chest. Sherlock could only moan desperately in response, rendered temporarily incapable of speech as John turned his attention to his left nipple, while he continued to pinch and roll it’s abused twin.

He could come like this, he knew he could, just from John biting and twisting his stinging flesh, heat pooled in his groin and he could feel a steady trickle of fluid from his aching cock. Jesus Christ, he had to pull back from this now or it would all be, over his scrambled brain screamed out to him as John licked the pain away with warm soothing strokes.

“John, John, we need to stop, just for a second” he gasped out, pushing up on John’s shoulders as he wriggled underneath him.

Okay, maybe the wriggling wasn’t such a good idea. He groaned.

“Shit, I did something wrong, didn’t I? Was it too much?”

“No, no, just…bed… can we?"

Sherlock gestured towards the pillows, they were currently lying crosswise, Sherlock’s long legs hanging right over the edge.

“And why the fuck do we still have clothes on?” he added with a huff, dragging John’s t-shirt over his head and yanking down his bottoms impatiently.

John just laughed at him, eyes crinkling at the corners, just the way Sherlock liked.

John scrambled up the bed and dove under the covers as Sherlock leapt across the room to snap off the light, returning to see only the top of an ash blond scalp peeping over the covers. He grabbed a corner and yanked the whole thing back and John yelped as six foot of long lanky Sherlock dived on him from above.

They settled, and lay facing each other, Sherlock’s left leg between John’s thighs, faces close, breathing the same air. John’s arms were curled protectively around his waist as he cupped the sides of John’s head in his hands.

“I want you tonight, all of you…will you let me do that?” he whispered breathlessly.

He was poised for rejection, it was a big thing to ask, a leap of faith and trust, maybe too soon. But that was okay, they could do other things, John could fuck him again, and it would be incredible, amazing….

“Yes”

His pulse pounded in his ears and his chest felt hot and tight. John leant forward and kissed him gently, chastely on the lips and pulled back again, eyes searching Sherlock’s face in the dim light.

“I want you to…I want to try…it’s just…oh god, what if I’m shit at it Sherlock?”

Sherlock kissed him back, slipping in a little tongue this time, just a taste,

“You couldn’t possibly be shit at it, because you’re John” he said simply.

“It’s been fucking great so far, so why should this be any different? But if you want me to stop just say stop, okay?”

John nodded and squeezed Sherlock’s waist, moving closer until they were pressed chest to groin and kissed him deeply, sinking into the push and pull of lips and tongues. They lay like that for several minutes, until their bodies ached to move and just do something more, anything more.

It was time.

Sherlock pulled away with a wet smack and scooted around to his bedside table, fumbling in the drawer for condoms and lube. His test results were back, and he was clear, but maybe that would be too much for both of them this time, he doubted he could last two minutes at the thought of coming inside John minus the latex barrier.

John lay nervous and tense, hands folded loosely across his chest, uncertain now that the roles were reversed and so Sherlock spread himself along his body, lying between John’s parted thighs, erections pressed together, smoothing the tension away with body heat and soothing strokes down his sides, kissing him softly.

Gently, slowly he began to move down John’s body, pressing soft kisses down his jaw and neck, licking along the collarbone and pausing to nibble gently on each nipple, sucking and flicking with the tip his tongue until they stood firm and erect. John clutched at his head, fisting handfuls of soft dark curls as Sherlock worked him over until satisfied with the soft shivers and moans.

He moved further down dipping into John’s naval, and leaving a cool wet trail on his skin. He lifted his head and reached to steady the base of John’s cock with his left hand licking a firm stripe from root to tip. This was familiar ground for both of them. He worked his lips around the head, lapping and sipping at the beads of precome already seeping from the slit, loving the bitter-sweet taste that was all John, just like a fingerprint, dipping and swirling his tongue before sucking down firmly.

John arched beneath him, gasping and he pressed a steadying hand on his hip, a signal to hold still, before this could turn into a face-fuck.

“Enough Sherlock, stop, please”

He broke away, and rubbed teasing circles on John’s inner thighs, waiting for permission to continue, for John’s chest to stop heaving in ragged gasps.

“I need you to….I want you to touch me Sherlock….there…please”

His own neglected cock throbbed with want at John’s words, at what he was allowed to do, and his hands shook slightly as he pulled John’s hips towards him and gently pulled one leg up over his shoulder, tapping the other. John lifted obligingly, heels pressing lightly in Sherlock’s ribs, his hands fisting the sheets at his sides.

He took a moment to just stare at John stretched out waiting for Sherlock to touch him and felt dizzy with the thrill of it, until gently, carefully he moved in close, parting John’s arse with warm palms and gave an experimental lick over the sensitive skin.

“Ah… fuck Sherlock…that’s…ohgodohgod”

“I haven’t really done anything yet John, just a lick”

“It feels…ohfuck…just do it again…now"

So he did it again, and again, laving over John’s hole until he felt him relax underneath him, before probing further, pushing inside, just a little with the tip of his tongue into hot silky heat, pulling out, pushing in again, gently fucking John open while running his hands up and down shaking thighs. He pulled away and John whined at the loss.

“Why did you stop…it was…good”

“I need to open you up more, I don’t want to hurt you”

“Oh….will it be bad….does it hurt”

“Not if I’m careful…now shh…just relax”

He reached for the lube on the mattress beside him, squeezing out a generous amount, the more the better this time, stroking the extra around John’s entrance before pushing one finger inside.

John gasped, hips lifting at the sudden intrusion as Sherlock slowly worked it in and out.

“Another?”

“Yes, just do it”

John hissed through gritted teeth, legs heavy over Sherlock’s slender shoulders. He would have to move soon. He added a second and then a third soon after, mesmerised by the sight of his fingers pumping in and out of John’s body.

Fucking hell he wanted to put his cock in there right now – needed to!

He shifted position a little and John bucked underneath him with a strangled gasp, his legs falling down from Sherlock’s shoulders to flop on the mattress at his side, writhing as he thrust to meet the rhythmic fucking of Sherlock’s fingers.

“Prostate?”

“Huh? Hmm….oh fuck Sherlock… that’s…oh god…. Want you to fuck me now…ready….”

Oh god, he was past ready himself, desperate to bury his cock deep and fuck John through the bed. It had been so fucking long since he’d topped he was scared of going too hard and fast, hurting him. He eased his fingers out slowly and reached for a condom with shaking fingers, tearing the foil impatiently with his teeth. He rolled it down carefully and spread more lube, just to be sure.

He leant down, hands braced either side of John’s head and kissed him deeply.

“Okay?”

“Yes…just do it now…just….I trust you…I want you to…please”

Fuck this was really going to happen now. He knelt back between John’s spread thighs and lined up with his hole, holding his cock steady with his left hand, right hand resting on John;s hip. He squeezed his eyes tight shut and…pushed forward slowly, a moment of pressure, the head of his cock slid inside and John went rigid beneath him.

Ohgodohgodoh god, it felt so impossibly hot and tight…. three fingers and it still hadn’t been enough.

“Fuck fuck fuck it hurts”

“We can stop….it’s okay we can stop…”

“Don’t you fucking dare pull out” John growled “Just do something…start fucking me for god’s sake…I’m not going to fucking cry Sherlock…just move”

And so he did, trying not to focus on John’s pained grimace as he thrust firmly forward, almost halfway and eased slowly back, feeling the delicious drag and friction of the tight muscle against his cock.

He could feel every pulse and contraction as he thrust forward again, burying himself deeper, pulling back and slamming in a little harder this time, aching for more, still trying not to fuck too hard, to just fucking take what he wanted… John needed to enjoy this too.

He was balls deep now and John brought his legs up to wrap around him, arching to meet each thrust head thrown back against the pillows moaning incoherently, body slick with sweat, cock glistening with leaking fluid dark and flush against his body. Sherlock leaned forward slightly, sliding an arm around John’s back, their chests touching, John’s cock trapped between their bodies. He sucked deeply at John’s neck, feeling the heated blood rise to the surface, vessels popping and bursting under his greedy lips, hips thrusting faster and harder, shoving John further up the bed.

John grabbed at his arse, pushing down firmly to fuck himself deeper and deeper, pressing Sherlock’s cock where he needed it, hitting the right spot over and over.

“Oh god…I want to come…fuck me harder Sherlock…do it…do it….like that….oh god …yes…”

His muscles screamed in protest, hair sticking to his brow in sweaty clumps as he gave it hard and dirty skin slapping on skin, slick with lube and sweat, wet and filthy.

“Touch yourself” he gasped “Do it John….want to see you come…oh fuck…I need you to come…”

He raised his body a little, hips still pumping rhythmically as he watched John wrap a hand around his cock, fisting it erratically in short frantic strokes

“Sherlock….Sherlock…yes…oh god yes…”

John shouting his name as he came, painting thick ribbons of semen across his stomach and chest was enough to undo Sherlock completely. He thrust up into him once, twice, hard and froze as he came with a shuddering gasp, warm liquid heat surrounding him, pulsing over and over, arms shaking with the effort to keep his body upright.

Oh god, he just had to…he dipped down, licking a stripe of warm sticky fluid from John’s chest, savouring the taste of salt and musk and sex. He bent to catch more, resisting the temptation to swallow, holding it on his tongue, moving up to press his open mouth to John’s in a filthy kiss.

“Oh god …that’s just so fucking wrong….you dirty bastard…”

John moaned, pulling Sherlock back down for another kiss anyway, tasting himself on Sherlock’s lips. It was the hottest thing Sherlock had ever done in his entire life.

He eased out of John’s body gently, shit, he would still have a sore arse tomorrow, dropping the condom on the floor in a hurry to wrap himself back around warm sweaty limbs, a tangle of arms and legs.

“Was I okay?”

“Hmm? Don’t be an idiot, of course you were, couldn’t you tell?”

“Not really, not when it felt like a red hot poker up my arse….well, at first it did anyway….”

“And then it was…..?”

“Amazing….you have quite an impressively large cock by the way…at least that’s how it felt on this side if it…”

Sherlock couldn’t help the smug little smirk that appeared on his lips.

“What are we going to do now?” John breathed into his neck.

“More of the same I hope”

“Sorry, bit of a sore bum at the minute….I’ll get back to you in say….about a week or so?”

“Ah well….It’s a good job I haven’t….got a sore bum that is"

“Oh, in that case, round two later?”

“Yes, right after I get us both into a shitload more trouble. I hacked those incident reports from Tuesday night. How do you fancy going to see a couple of strippers today?”

“How could I say no to such sexy pillow talk? I’m very turned on right now”

“Sarcasm?”

“Good deduction”

~*~

A bright white glow lit up the dusty floorboards beneath the rumpled bed, unseen, ignored, a message,

**See you soon? –V xx**

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that was the calm before the storm guys, (if you can call that calm!)  
> A face from the past is coming back to tear their world apart, that is if someone else doesn't get to them first!
> 
> (Bonus points to anyone who knows where I filched the title from this time)


End file.
